


Sam

by Unovis



Series: Clothing Stories [5]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Cowboys, M/M, bar story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is a young Watcher in London. He loves cowboys. He loves his job, though he's on probation. He has a fearful weakness for a living legend. A re-post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam

**Author's Note:**

> This is in the world of the Clothing Stories or Poor Roger, a month or so before Duncan shows up in Suiting Up. You don't really need to know anything other than Methos being in London, after the Horsemen, after his cover was blown. It's slash, it's not much but sex. 
> 
> Thanks to darthhellokitty and killabeez for suggestions and enduring parts of this in a rougher state. This was originally written and posted in October 2006.

Clench was a bore and Rupert was an ass. Sam sipped his Slippery Dick. Three weeks back in London and he was desperate to jump plane for the wide open spaces, if only... He sipped again. If only. If only he hadn't interfered. If only he hadn't been caught. If only the damned Watcher probation were over. Eighteen months. Eighteen blessed months, and then no guarantees he'd ever do field work again. He bit the gold-specked plastic stirrer and moved Rupert's hand from his thigh. A year and a half on quarter-pay and restricted duties. A year and a half under observation and report. Who watches the Watchers? Leonard Blutch, in accounts receivable.

Rupert reached across the glass bar for a matchbook and pressed his knee. He'd have his fist in Sam's lap already if the spindly iron stools weren't so revealing and the bar so clearly lit from below. Then again, a genteel grope might qualify as entertainment here. Pretentious, awful, and not another pair of jeans in sight. He was half-dressed, incongruous for this place, rushed from his boring new job with only time to change out of his trousers and pull on his boots. He owed Rupert, damn it. Couldn't make ends meet on quarter-pay, couldn't cover his bar tab. Couldn't find love on the dole. Rupert had phoned a friend and secured him an interview, and then, with a wink, an offer. Rupert had seemed like a lot more fun in the back room of Knotted and then the leather seats of his car. Sam shifted on the torturous stool. Nice, those seats. Smelled like new saddles. He wondered how many sex acts the rescued ranch hand owed the cavalry. Two? One, if spectacular? The bar looked sturdy enough. Rupert was expensively fit. Quite a nice show, they'd make: his pink and white trim body pounding into Sam's tawny flesh, cheeks spreading against the glass surface, lights beating with every pumping thrust... Sam shifted again. Could do, could knock one off tonight, in the right frame of mind.

"What say we move on?" asked Rupert.

Sam looked at him through his lashes. "One more. I'm building a mood." Another fantasy: Let the glass and iron fade to wood and brass. Let the technopop ripple into a tinkling piano. Let the line of men pressed against the bar... He swallowed a mouthful of banana rum and passionfruit. Let the honchos...let the dusty, hard riding...let the strong, sun darkened...Hell. He stared glumly at the row of pasty faces and smartly draped torsos. Cowboys don't drink Slippery Dicks. The glass clunked down on the bar. City Slickers, to a man.

"Don't wet your end." Rupert winked and tugged the point of Sam's tie.

It was a nice tie. He'd flirted with the shop girl, who said it brought out his eyes: peacock feathers in muted blues and grey on watered silk. Sam licked his lower lip and flicked another glance at Rupert. Easy to look at, in his element. A notch above the chorus line between them and the door. "It's a bit tight for after hours." He took the knot in two fingers, to loosen it.

"Uhn." There was Rupert's hand, on target. The man lacked all subtlety. His carefully encouraged hard-on didn't mind. The bar chatter flowed around them, unimpressed. Nobody looked their way...nobody but one dark haired fellow leaning against the bar, at the end. One knife-faced man in a black calfskin jacket, cheeks whipped from the outside chill, hands clenching in tight black leather gloves. My oh my. Howdy, Mr. Earp.

Rupert gave a teasing squeeze. "I'll loosen more than your tie, if you'll come away. Bottoms up."

The dark haired man was looking harder now, watching openly. He stood out. Sharp, focused; familiar, like, like...one of Them. Oh. Hell. The man stood up straight.

Sam pulled Rupert's hand away. "Game over, pardner." He shook his left cuff down, reflexively. Immortals meant Watchers, meant someone from the firm in this poncy club, likely watching _him_ as well. He shot a quick glance around the room. No one he recognized. He didn't know all the locals; this could be trouble from out of town, this man moving his way, this frankly appealing, fascinating...oh.

"You're a tease, Briggs."

Sam swallowed. This man. This myth, this scandal, in the flesh.

Watcher warnings for stray Immortals were clear. Do not engage; do not acknowledge; get your round little ass away as quietly as possible and file a report. But he was _here_. But _he's gay!_ sang the cowboy chorus in Sam's heart, and all the blood left his brain.

"I'm over here," Rupert sniped. The man... _Methos_...stopped to say a word to one of the waiters.

"Control yourself. Someone from work, I think."

"Half the office, I'd imagine. Don't be a prude." Rupert slid his hand up Sam's thigh possessively. He looked about, all the same. The man, Methos, was level with them now. Sam wondered if his panic could be seen in his eyes. Rupert's mouth pinched into a smile. "Hello, Adams. On the prowl?" He tightened his grip on Sam's thigh until it hurt.

 _Adams? Rupert knew Methos?_ Sam barely felt the pain, the fingers digging denim into his flesh. _Prowl?!_

"Cutter. Always a pleasure. Thought I'd step in from the cold." This wasn't the Adam Pierson whose photos he'd seen (and saved) from the files. Oh, the face was there, but the voice, the voice was unexpected. Did Rupert have the sense to be afraid? He couldn't tell. Rupert had his face toward Methos-Adams. He kept his deathgrip on Sam's leg and ignored him like a child.

"I'm leaving. Don't let me keep you."

"It's dark and lonely out there. Stay, let me buy a round. Introduce me to your friend." Methos looked at Sam directly, then. Passed his eyes over his face, his shirt and tie, his faded jeans, his legs hooked around the barstool, his heeled and tooled boots; back up to his lap with Rupert's proprietary hand.

"He's engaged for the evening. Find someone else." Rupert smiled, passing off the rudeness (appalling rudeness! appalling presumption!) as a joke.

Sam pushed on Rupert's elbow, breaking his hold. He held out his hand to Methos. "Hi. I'm Sam."

"Hello, Sam." Methos didn't take his hand. He didn't look into Sam's eyes. He glanced down his shirtfront again, the full-body scan, and before his look returned to Sam's face, Sam's confidence had fled. _Danger, danger, danger, you fool._ Methos tugged on the wrist of his glove. Sam unwound his legs and dropped to his feet.

"I feel the need. Be right back." He pressed Rupert's shoulder. "Then we'll go." He wanted to saunter away. His back prickled with imagined stares. One stare. Great Randolph Scott, was he mad? Should he call someone? Methos's Watcher had to be somewhere. Was his? Where? Who? Last he heard, Methos had a woman Watcher. No women here, certainly. But he'd only heard the tale a year ago, only heard tell the legend was in London. Nobody said he was gay. Never, nope. He would have remembered that. God. Piss and get out of here, and imagine that voice while Rupert banged him brainless. He was hard as a rock thinking about it. Didn't help his saunter any.

He was a while in there, locked in a stall, before making his way back. He didn't see Rupert's blond sculpted head through the crowd. Closer, closer--and oh, fuck. Not Rupert, but Methos-Adams in his seat, drinking a whiskey. His foot was propped against the next stool, the one draped with Sam's jacket and scarf.

"Hello, Sam."

A direct look in the eyes, this time. What were they, hazel? Green? Glittering, narrowed. Connected straight to his cock and reeling him in. "Hello... Where's Rupert?"

"The name's Michael. Cutter left."

"I'll be off as well, then. Nice to meet you." He picked up his scarf. Methos picked up the other end and rolled it around his fist, tightening it between them, until Sam, numb, let go.

"Sit down. I don't want to shout."

He'd be armed. He couldn't do...he had no reason to do Sam harm. He was even more striking, alone.

"Sit," Methos repeated. He gestured for the bartender. Sam sat. "You don't want another of those, do you?"

"Rum and coke," said Sam.

"Cuba libre and mine again," ordered Methos. The bar was bare in front of him. Rupert must have settled his tab in record time.

"Where's Rupert?"

"Left." Methos unwound the scarf from his fist. He'd taken off his gloves. His hands were large, his fingers long and narrow. His nails were manicured. "Do you care?"

"Is he all right?"

Methos smiled. "Of course. I paid him off."

"For what?" The rum and coke was cold and crisp and not sickly sweet. Sam's stomach settled. Normal returned. Just another attractive man talking to him at a bar.

"For you."

Bang, straight through the heart. And he hadn't even seen him reach. He gasped. He grinned. Oh, games. Games he could play.

"Sorry, pardner. I'm not for sale."

"Oh?" Methos grinned back. Lots of teeth. He stretched one long hand to Sam's throat and hooked a finger inside the knot of his tie. Sam felt his knuckle against his adam's apple, felt it when he swallowed against the bone. He pulled the tie looser, to hang on Sam's chest. He squeezed it in his hand. "For rent, then?" The back of his hand, under the tie, against his shirt, was knobbed and hot. Methos laid his other hand flat on Sam's thigh, where Rupert had clutched and bruised. "By the hour? By the act?"

_On this stool, on the bar, hanging from the neon sign. In the alley, in the cab to my flat, if we can make it that far. Against the safety door, on the steps, on the landing. On my bare bucking bedroom floor._

"So, romance isn't dead?" He covered Methos's hand with his own and slid it off his leg.

"It's not on offer."

"Pity." _Romance, hell. Take me. Take me home. Take me home, and the Watchers' Council will hang me by my heels. Take me home, and they'll crucify me. If you don't kill me first._

"Was that what you wanted from Cutter?" Methos finished his whiskey in one smooth swallow. He produced a narrow wallet from his jacket and laid a note on the bar. He stood up, and Sam's heart shrank.

And then he pulled Sam's jacket from the back of the stool and handed it to him. "Coming?" He put Sam's scarf around his neck and turned and pushed through the throng to the door. And then, heart in mouth, Sam shrugged into his jacket and pushed after him.

***

Outside, he didn't see him. The neon from the window cast a pool of color on the pavement. The club was more discreet than the places he frequented; there were no stragglers by the entry, standing, talking, flirting, spilling over from the bar. There were passersby and tourists, even at this hour, wrapped against the October wind. He looked right down the street. He walked left to the corner of the building and Methos was there, dark against dark, hooking him by the elbow. Half a head taller than he was, standing so close. He backed Sam into the doorway of the dark shop next door and up against its side. He put a hand on the tiled strip next to Sam's head. He had the gloves on again.

Sam squirmed. "A bit public, here. You have a home, right?"

"In good time. Give us a taste."

"Don't hurt me." It came out without thought, breathless and foolish. Methos stilled against him, in the shadows. Then he moved his head, slowly, came closer, slowly, his arm bending, his jacket front pressing against Sam's chest. Sam closed his eyes, his heart stuttering; and Methos's mouth was against his, Methos's lips, oh, soft, oh, wet, were sliding, fitting against his. Kissing him.

Sam leaned into the wall and drank it in, being kissed, being tasted, being opened and probed. He made a sound when Methos steadied his face with his hand, the glove cold and sticky against his skin. He moaned when Methos pressed his other hand hard between his legs, rubbing the length of his sex rigid against his thigh. Methos kissed, he sucked and bit his lips; he undid the metal buttons, one by one, along Sam's fly, and worked his hand in, between the denim and his flesh.

"Christ," Sam panted. "It's over if you keep that up."

"You're eager," said Methos, with a ghost of a chuckle. He squeezed Sam's cock in his leather gloved fist and Sam buckled at the knees. A woman in a fur coat walked by and laughed.

"Too right. Too..."

"Let go," growled that voice, that dark and thrumming voice, in his ear. "I've got you." The glove, the not-skin, pressed and tightened, biting into him, and Methos began a steady, devastating stroke. Sam sagged against him, against the cold softness of his jacket, clutching Methos's sleeves, while the one hot center, his flesh in Methos's tight and twisting grip, pulsed between them.

"I want... more...I want..." _You!_ screamed his brain, while his body erupted, shot hot and messy into, over, Methos's hand, and red lightning swirled behind his eyes.

"Oh, _bugger!_ " he groaned, into the legend's collar.

Methos laughed. He tugged a curl at the nape of his neck. "Sweet Sam."

He pushed Sam back against the wall, off his chest, off his body. It was cold between them, and Sam felt the loss, felt less afraid than foolish, now. Methos unfolded a handkerchief from somewhere and wiped his glove. He tucked it into the undone V of Sam's jeans and stepped away, out of the doorway. "Sorry," said Sam, wiping and buttoning with clumsy fingers and bowed head. "My flat isn't far. Nothing special, I'm still furnishing." He looked up. He was alone. The street was quiet and empty, at last.

He stayed there in the doorway for a rest, to settle his mind, his disappointment. His rescue from true foolishness. He moved, finally, onto the pavement. Methos still had his scarf; he turned his collar up. A cab, a luxury he might stretch to, pulled to the kerb. He leaned into it and the window rolled down.

"Coming?"

***

He must have given the address before Sam got in the cab. The lights winked by. Traffic swam around them. Methos was silent, hands curled in his lap. Their knees knocked when the car took a steep turn. He'd know. He'd find out and--be angry? be violent? turn Sam in? turn him out? It would end badly. He'd come when he was bidden and now Methos was taking him away. Did Rupert truly tell him he was for sale? What did Methos want him for? Fact was, Methos had no reputation, outside the recent scandal and the myth. If he was violent, insane, a killer, there was no record of it. A killer of mortals; they were all killers of each other. Adam Pierson had been a Watcher, for criminey's sake, was a middling football player and a bookworm, practically a monk. This man sitting next to him, in the flesh, was magnetic. Sam looked at his profile in the flashing light. That nose. He smiled. Methos turned his head to look at him.

 _He'll find out. You have to tell him before he sees for himself. But it's only sex. A pickup, a one-off._ His supervisor would have his balls on a keychain for this.

They crossed Waterloo Bridge, concrete humming under the wheels. "Here," said Methos, at the end of a long curving street, and the cab stopped. Methos pressed his knee. Sam opened the door and stepped out, in front of a white brick building behind a railing, boxy and plain. There was a front door and light, a mail slot and number. It must be a house. There was another box adjoining, exactly the same. A private garage next to that. Small oblong windows in the facade. There must be a view of the river from the rear.

Methos brushed past him and opened the railing gate. Sam followed, clanging the gate behind him. Methos held open the front door on a lighted vestibule, waiting.

Methos's house. It was... "Boots, please," said Methos. There was no coatrack in the entry, just a table by the door, a sisal rug, and to one side, a shallow wooden tray. Methos unfastened his own (sleek, unusual) half boots and placed them in the tray. Sam's boots stuck; there was a bootjack, but it wasn't made for tapered heels. He pulled the right off. He hopped, pulling on the left, a tight fit under his jeans leg. Methos held his arm, bracing him; took the boot from his hand when it finally came off; dropped it on the tray with a clunk, looking into Sam's eyes, smiling lazily. Put his hands beneath Sam's jacket, at his waist. Pulled him close. Kissed his mouth, hard; Sam reached around the bulky, cold leather, and held Methos's back, held on. Their teeth bumped, and Methos let him go.

"I'm not a rent boy," said Sam.

"That much is obvious." A dog barked sharply, somewhere behind doors. Methos ignored the sound.

"I have to tell you something."

"Anything you like. Drop your jacket on the couch. Fancy a drink?" Methos walked away, into the house, through the large open sitting room, unbuttoning his jacket. It started to annoy, this elusiveness, this cat and mouse. Whatever he might be, Sam was no toy, no mouse. His bonger boinged at the mere smell of this man (and oh, he did smell, he did taste great), but he was more, all in all, than the sum of his dock. Dick. Cock.

"I'm a Watcher," he declared. Aloud.

"Well, fuck me blind. Hot rum?"

The _bastard!_ "You knew?"

Methos had disappeared off to the left, in the direction of more barks. Sam stamped after him, wrestling with his jacket zip. "You knew?"

Beyond a dining room, through a swinging door, was a kitchen white and black and shining. Methos's jacket and Sam's scarf lay on a chair. Methos stood in a soft black pullover, black trousers, and socks at the counter, plugging in a kettle. On the floor, sniffing his cuffs, was a long, reddish dachshund. At Sam's entry, the dog jerked up his head and charged, yapping, feet scrabbling on the tiles.

"Hey, wiener dog! Hi, fella!" The dog bounced madly, barking at Sam's knees. He crouched and held out his hand. The guardian, subsiding to woofs, allowed his ears to be fondled and scratched. "Beauty. Good boy."

"Foots," said Methos. He picked up the wriggling, licking dog (licking Sam's hands; oh, what did he smell?). "Say goodnight, Foots."

"He's no bother," said Sam.

"He interferes," said Methos. Foots butted Methos's chin and licked his ear; he leered at Sam over Methos's elbow, all the way to exile in some other room. The kettle steamed. Sam shut it off. He unbuttoned his left shirt cuff and rolled it up, over the tattoo. He heard Methos come in, felt him close behind him.

"You knew?"

Strong arms reached around him, around his waist. Long hands slid under the waistband of his jeans, inside his shirt, over the contours of his hipbones, his belly, his navel. Up to his breast, down to the base of his cock. Teeth nipped his earlobe. That voice rumbled in his ear. "You here to fuck or to spy?"

_fuck!_

"You here to fuck or to talk?"

_fuck! double fuck!_

"You here to..."

"Fuck!" He pressed Methos's hands into his chest, down his jeans. He arched back, into the body trapping him; Methos bit the side of his throat and sucked. He squirmed against him, pinned between his body and his hands, tight against Methos's crotch, rocking them back across the floor, socks slipping on the tiles. He stumbled and they broke apart, Methos's hand still down his jeans. He drew it out, scratching his nails along Sam's skin, and they stood panting, facing each other. Methos was flushed, his eyes bright, his trousers prominently bulged.

"All right, then." At the counter, Methos poured hot water into two glass beakers on a tray. Not a waver, not a clink or spill. He picked up the tray and shouldered open the swinging door.

***

Rum, hot water, cinnamon, and sugar cubes. The toddy was soothing, slowing his jangled senses. He sipped it on the couch while Methos knelt at the fireplace, turning on gas-fed flames. The sitting room was comfortable and blank. White and beige along the walls; three thick patterned carpets, nice reds and golds, on the floor. The opposite wall was covered with curtains, hiding what must be a great view across the river. There was nothing personal here. On the low table in front of him was a chess set, with plain black and white pieces. An antique looking clock and a glass bowl sat on shelves built into the wall. Where in this was Methos? Sam ducked his head to his drink. Here to spy?

The fire crackled. The couch cushions squeaked. Easy to clean, leather? He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a strip of condoms. Were Immortals safe? They didn't cover that in basic training. They were going to do this. He shivered, and Methos looked at him. "Cold? Come here, it's warm."

"Rugburn, also warm. Here is fine."

"Come. You won't need those."

So, that was a 'sissy to worry' for abraded mortal skin and a 'no' for condoms. He walked over to Methos, sitting crosslegged before the fireplace, and squatted in front of him. First things first: he pulled his tie loose. Methos reached over his hand and pulled the tie until it unknotted and slid it off. Methos's pullover had three buttons, from the neck to the shoulder. Sam touched the first one and Methos brushed his hand away. "I'll do that. Take off your shirt. Let me look at you." He wound the tie around his fist, waiting, fixing Sam with a stare. It was a blue shirt, nice with the tie and his eyes. Sam unbuttoned it from the bottom, from habit. When he was halfway up, Methos leaned in and began to undo his jeans, pulling the flap open. Sam slid the top shirt button from its hole and Methos dipped fingers inside, freeing his cock. Sam had nothing on under his jeans. Cowboys went commando, at least in his dreams. He took off his shirt. Methos stroked his filling cock with the side of his thumb, with the fist wrapped in his tie. "Very pretty, Sam." He bent. He licked the pink, plumping head, then bit Sam's stomach above it.

"Wait," said Sam, wobbling on his heels. He stood and peeled down his jeans, shaking them off his ankles. He was naked, in his purple socks, with Methos's hands on his hips pulling him closer. Maybe Methos didn't get undressed? Maybe he...oh...maybe he liked licking Sam's cock, pushing it back and forth, licking its underside, running his tongue down, under, over his balls... Sam spread his legs apart... opening his mouth, sucking his balls... His chest was cold, his ass to the fire was hot, his cock was slick and stiff and sliding into Methos's warm, wet, practiced mouth. He squirmed. He wanted to do something to Methos, he wanted to explore. He pulled on the hair brushing between his thighs. "You've done me once. I want..."

"More. I know." Methos bit the inside of his thigh, gently, and leaned back, his lips pink and shining. "Cabinet next to the fire," he said. He pulled the soft knit over his head and stood. Sam had to bend to reach the cabinet door ( _admiring the view?_ ). Inside the deep space was a roll of something wooly and a wooden cigar box. He pulled out the wooly thing and shook it open.

It was a thick white sheepskin, several sheepskins stitched together. He had a rug like this in his bedroom when he was a boy. "Nice fleece," he said. Methos was barefoot, down to his boxers, blue striped with a button at the waist, folding his trousers. He laid the trousers on top of his other clothing on a chair and slipped off the boxers. He folded them and placed them on the pile. Sam's tie was looped in his hand.

"Spread that out."

"That's my tie."

"Yes. Hand me the box." There was something different shining in Methos's eyes, something that put a ripple of fear up Sam's back and made his wet cock bob. He turned to look at the box, he bent down to pick it up, and Methos dropped the silk noose of the tie over his head and pulled it snug.

He choked and kicked the box, he jerked back, tightening the tie; he knocked Methos's hands away. "No. No to whatever you think you're going to do."

"Kneel down, Sam."

"No. I don't do tied up, I don't do strangled: read the label. It's new, I like this tie, _It's my tie._ " He jerked it up over his head and off.

"Down."

"I'm not strangling you either, you mad bastard son of a bitch." He shook, his erection bobbling and mocking him, and he was close to rage or flight. His clothes were behind Methos, rumpled on the floor. He moved, Methos moved. He was flat on his back skidding across the buckled fleece, his head on bare wood too close to the fire, Methos across him, heavy damn it, holding down his shoulder and struggling for his arm. He punched, he rolled, he wrestled for position, he got a good one to Methos's ribs, before he was on his knees in a headlock he couldn't break, losing air, losing focus, losing. "Oh, _shit!_ " he rasped.

"Is that 'sorry Michael, I've been an ass'?"

_"No."_

"Is that 'let me go Michael, and I'll fetch the lube'?"

"Your...name...is Methos."

Silence, for two breaths. The spots before his eyes settled down. Methos across his back felt tight and muscled and hot, all that skin to skin. Like sex. He wheezed and the lock loosened. He slapped Methos's arm twice and the lock changed to an arm around his neck. He struggled to kneel up, then back on his haunches, and Methos moved with him, chest against his back, arms around him, long thighs and knees to either side. Methos rubbed his chest. Sam leaned back into his shoulder.

"It's Michael, here."

Sam listened to his heartbeat slow. "What's the tie for?"

"It's just...a nice tie, Sam. Goes with your eyes. Looks nice with your skin."

"No strangling. Nothing weird."

"Nothing you don't want."

"I'm not hearing..."

"I won't hurt you."

Methos-Michael fit well around Sam, like this. The cigar box was by Sam's foot, where it was kicked. He picked it up, grunting, and opened it. Lube, condoms, a few other things that glinted and clinked. He took out the blue tube and snapped the box firmly shut. A snigger puffed his hair. "Sweet Sam."

"I'm not a kid. I know what I like. What I don't."

A kiss on his shoulder. "Very sweet."

He snapped the top off the tube and Methos wrapped his fist around it, squeezing the slippery gel over their hands. "From experience," he insisted. He could feel Methos's cock bump against the fine skin of his lower back. He reached behind and connected. He curled his hand around, coating it with the lube. It felt fat and happy in his hand. His heart kicked with pleasure, just as Methos curved his hand into Sam's lap and repaid the favor. Oh, lovely squish. One hand rolling around his cock and balls, the other stroking up his chest, pinching his nipples. His breath quickened.

"Knees or back? In my lap? Move." Methos's voice was rough, his nails clipping the nipple twisting in his fingers.

He wanted it deep, he wanted it now. Sam dropped forward on hands and knees, maneuvering to get his legs and Methos's sorted out. He dug his fingers into the curly wool and closed his eyes, screwing them tighter shut at the feel of Methos's fingers parting his cheeks, twisting into him, pushing, slowly, curving...

"Uhn! Oh, holy..." He sank onto his forearms, ass in the air, squirming back onto Methos's hand, Methos's hand driving in and out, stretching him, painful at the edges, but hitting that good, goood...

Methos pulled out his fingers and slapped his cheek, a loud, stinging crack. "Stay!" He leaned on Sam's back, one hand rubbing the base of his spine, and he guided the fat, blunt head of his cock into Sam's waiting hole. And pushed, pushed until Sam had him deep and full. Methos inside of him. Methos fucking him, now, moving in him, across that good hot spot, sliding into a hard, fast, thumping rhythm, gripping his hips bruisingly, hot behind his thighs. He rocked forward on his knees, battered from behind, he fell over his arms, his fists clutching the fleece, his cock riding through the white, soft curls, Methos panting across his back. Methos's hips jerked into him, thighs slapping the back of his thighs, faster, harder, until he stuck, shuddering, groaning, shooting deep, deep, deep.

Sam folded flat over his arms, his legs sliding back under Methos's weight, pressing his cock into the rug; Methos slipped out of him; then sighed and sank against his side, his head heavy on Sam's neck. The fire crackled. Methos breathed.

He shifted to find a comfortable position. He savored Methos warm against him, the wobbly feeling inside, the fading tremors, the ache of his cock still eager in his hand. The lube was within reach, happily. He squirted a chilly dab into his palm and stroked himself. "Mmmmm."

"Mmmore," said Methos. His hand was large enough to overlap Sam's, his fingertips touching skin, trailing up and down the heated shaft. "Give us a minute." It was a leisurely, steady stroke. Cozy. Building nicely. What a night.

"You never paid for me," said Sam. Methos licked his neck. "The wife called?" Methos bit his shoulder, twisted their stroking hands. The new angle, the pressure, arched his back and curled his toes. "Oh, God, nice." Methos moved around him, quickening the pace. He wanted to see him, he wanted to be face to face. But it felt so good like this, held, covered, with Methos's hand driving him. Faster, harder. His hips jerked into the rhythm of it. He gasped with it, wrapped in Methos's body and hand, in front of the jumping flames. "Not yet," he panted. "Not yet; I want, I want!"

He bucked on the bull, he flew back, hat against the sun. He fell.

***

Methos came from somewhere with a warm washcloth and a fresh toddy. He was still naked. It was friendly, being naked together on the fleece. Sam rolled onto his back. Methos touched the tattoo on his hipbone.

"Delgado?"

Trust him to know the brand. "From 1811. Land grant from the King of Spain to our ancestors, my grandmother said."

"Big spread, back in the day."

"Before the war." He wouldn't ask. He couldn't ask how much this creature knew or had seen with his old, old eyes.

"You don't sound like a Texan."

"Mexican, please. And English; born thirty miles from here. Nice lube. Silicone?"

"Nice boots." Methos rubbed his knuckles across Sam's clean and pink cock. He trailed a finger under, around his balls, to his slick, puckered hole. "The Watchers have a ranch."

"Here to fuck," said Sam. He twisted to lift the beaker and drink. The rum was hot and buttered and he wanted to taste Methos's cock with the feel still in his mouth.

"Tell me you're not in the field."

"I was."

"You're young to retire."

"Not...by choice. I'll be back." He took another swallow of buttered rum. He pushed Methos's knee wider and reached between his legs.

"Probation. What did you do?"

"That's...God...classified." He bent his head and swept his tongue across the head of Methos's cock, plump between his finger and thumb.

"A bit late for rules, young Sam." Methos's cock bobbed under his lapping strokes. "Do you know what they'll do to you for being here?" He squeezed Sam's cock. "Do you know what danger you're in?"

"Yes." Sam closed his eyes and ears and opened his mouth. He sucked in the head of Methos's cock and drew it out again. Again, and again, with it getting fatter and harder in his hand, as Methos gripped him tight.

"What did you do?"

Methos was hard and wet now, wet as Sam could make him. He took him deep into his mouth and sucked, squeezed with his fingers all the way out, then pushed out of his lap, fell back on the fleece with his knees wide, open, inviting. Not on his knees, this time. "Make it worth the risk." It came out harder than he intended.

"Not frightened now?" Methos kept his grip. His other hand stayed below, his fingers pressing at Sam's opening. "What did you do?"

"I got him killed. I interfered." He tried to push onto the fingers. Methos took away his hands. "He was a killer. He killed someone. I got him killed."

"Sam..."

"No. You don't get to ask."

"Sam." He stroked Sam's thigh. The fire was no longer hot, the room no longer warm.

"Look." Sam shoved and shifted and rolled onto his knees, to face the bad, mad son of a bitch. "Here to fuck, right?" Naked, ridiculous, fearsome, the both of them.

"We did. And you have to leave."

"He was a bad one. He hurt people."

"You can't talk about this, you can't come back."

"Methos!"

He was in Methos's arms, holding him tight, being held. Methos ran his knuckles down his spine. "Sweet Sam." He slapped his back and let him go. Pushed him away. "Get dressed. I'll call a car."

And that's that, thought Sam. He was into his jeans, his shirt, his jacket and boots, even, before Methos came back into the room fully dressed. Handed him his scarf. "I can explain," he said. It was a stupid parting for this bizarre occasion.

"Don't think about it," said Methos. He opened the door onto the dark and frosty night, onto the headlights and hum of the waiting taxi. "I've paid. Extra. There won't be a record."

"Goodbye," said Sam.

"Watch yourself." Methos, the scandal, the myth, kissed him and stood back. He stood, arms crossed, on the step, as the cab drove away.

"Son of a bitch," said Sam. "He's got my tie."

End


End file.
